Save You
by ImpalaLove
Summary: AU type thing set somewhere in season 2. Dean's perspective. "Blinking, blinking back to life and he's sorry because oblivion is easier and he remembers what happened and where he probably is and now he blinks a few more times and he is sure of it..." (Will be 2 chapters).
1. Chapter 1

**This will be done in 2 parts/chapters. Set somewhere in season 2. Pretty dang AU. Language and a little bit of gore. Dean's POV.**

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Save You

He feels a tear inside his head, like glass breaking and splintering across the floor and getting caught beneath the cupboards and the fridge where it will stay, forever unrecovered. There is a word for this, he knows, an explanation for the sudden pain, but the black claws of nothingness scratch insistently against his eyelids and he gives into it because this was a hard blow to the head (blindsided, that's the word) and he thinks it might've been the butt of a gun or a fucking sledgehammer and…

 _Dark Dark Dark._

Blinking, blinking back to life and he's sorry because oblivion is easier and he remembers what happened and where he probably is and now he blinks a few more times and he is sure of it, can feel the pull of his shoulder blades squeezed too close together, the friction of rope wrapped around wrists and pulling, pulling. He pulls back, tests and finds no give, ankles wrapped too but separated, spread to opposite sides of the chair he's been strapped to, chest tight and aching against the ropes there. Ropes, ropes everywhere.

"Look who's awake."

And he groans because holy shit what an absolutely unoriginal line is this really how this is gonna go?

"So nice of you to join us."

Wow. Apparently it is. Goddammit but he's tired.

"Hey." A slap to the face, probably because he had closed his eyes again, tried to will himself back into unconsciousness before this situation got anymore goddamn cliché. The slap was harder than it needed to be, so they must've seen the eye roll too.

"Listen up, Winchester."

He listens. It's the same as last time, always the same speech and the same questions (and god how did he let this happen _again_? Must be slipping, definitely slipping...) and then, when he still doesn't speak (just like last time), it is the same slow build of _punch, punch, split lip, punch, punch, bloody nose_ , but not broken this time (not yet) and that's good because he can still breathe with sealed lips that won't spill anything except maybe the blood he can now feel, slow and red and sliding down his chin and he just wants a napkin or a tissue, something to stop the tickle of it.

"We have ways of making you talk, you understand? We know you know. We know you know where he is."

He doesn't, actually. Not anymore. Tracked him as far as Nevada and then lost him again, let him drift away on those desert currents in between the sparkle of casino lights and the whirring of slot machines.

They had locked eyes for a moment, a long frozen second of realization, recognition, fear and flight. Sam's hair had been a little longer and it had whipped across his face, half-covering it as he sprinted for the exit and away from his brother. And Dean had stood frozen, just that extra couple of seconds until the sleeve of Sam's jacket had disappeared through the doorway and then the heel of his shoe and that look, that look in his eyes…

Dean lost him. Lost him in the crowded street outside, and he thinks he meant to. Dean lost him in the abandoned alley. And in the grocery store before that. And in between panted breaths and the trees in the forest, and then again in the library, on the road, in the crack of the hall closet with nowhere else to go, nowhere except

 _Save him or kill him, save him or kill him._

A constant and unshakeable echo inside the fragile walls of his skull, the one now pounding out a steady ache as they get annoyed that he's still not talking, as they move from punches to pliers. He feels his fingernails fall away one by one and he tries not to scream but they are slow and meticulous about it so eventually he starts. Screaming and screaming. The knife is next, slicing and carving out patterns and screaming, screaming, but he won't say anything else.

 _(Meant to lose him,_ glad _he lost him and pain pain pain screaming, still silent in all the other ways, in the way that matters most. No words or hints or clues because Sammy's long gone and that's okay as long as he isn't here, isn't in the hands of these hunters turned monstrous. And isn't that just ironic? Isn't that just another goddamn cliché and fuck this hurts, hurts and he's drifting now, really losing it…)_

They leave him there.

At first Dean thinks it's just for the night, that they'll start in again the next day, but after hours of in and out and floating dreams and a sliver of sunlight that floods into morning, then flickers and flutters, fades to night again, they still haven't come back. He really doesn't want to die here.

 _Oh god. Please don't let him die here._

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 **I'll probably just post the second (and final) chapter for this within the next day or so. Thanks for reading- I always appreciate reviews!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, here's the conclusion for this little story. Hope you all enjoy, and happy Friday! (Dean's perspective still).**

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Dean needs water.

His lips are cracked and dry and he thinks it is the second day left alone here now but he can't be sure because of all the drifting in and out and _god_ his fingers, his fingers slide against one another sometimes when he forgets and he howls and whimpers at the pain of it because there is no one to hear and because it is not just his fingers, not just the other marks left along his skin but everything, everything, everything hurts and

 _Sammy where are you?_

And maybe he heard, he somehow heard because Sammy comes some blurred amount of time later and he is tugging at ropes and he is speaking soft and it can't be real because Sam left, Sam left and

"You didn't even give me a chance. You didn't even give me a _chance_ to save you."

Sam says "I'm sorry," and he sounds like he is shaking, not just his voice but all of him, all of him humming and he finally gets Dean's hands untied, lets out an ugly half-sob when he sees the empty nail beds, the long-dried blood caked over ruined fingers.

"Oh god," he says and he takes Dean's hands, drops them softly onto his brother's lap and grabs his neck next, pulls Dean into him and against his chest and holds on, holds on.

"I lost you. I meant to lose you," Dean says, all muffled in the thick fabric of his little brother's shirt. But Sam can hear him anyway and he nods his head against Dean's shoulder and waits a long time before he lets go. And he only lets go because he hears a voice that isn't either of the two of them, a gruff voice Dean recognizes and my god if this isn't another cliché and Sammy fell for it, Sammy took the bait and now he's hooked good and they've come back.

Sam stands up, stands in front of Dean with his shoulders flattened out and spread wide and menacing, his voice carrying low and soft and scary across the big room.

"You shouldn't have done that." It is almost a whisper, the way Sam says it, and though he is no longer leaning against his big brother, Dean can still _feel_ him humming, like Sam's whole body is trembling, energy pulsing out and out and away and _towards_ and it is dark, this thing that was once only on the inside and has leaked its way out into the open like John Winchester warned them it might.

 _Save him, or you'll have to kill him. Save him, because if you don't kill him (and you won't, I know you won't) then we are all doomed._

And Dean wouldn't, and Dean hasn't, and maybe they _are_ doomed now because Sam is standing in front of him and he is looming, enormous, more than a 6'4" frame. The hunters, the ones who had Dean and bruised his face and stripped off his fingernails and cut into his skin take a step forward. Dean thinks there are three of them but suddenly, suddenly there are two because one has dropped to the ground, holding his head and screaming and blood, blood is spilling out from his ears and his nose, down along his chin and

"Stop, Sammy stop. Please," Dean doesn't beg, he never begs but he is begging now, realizes the ropes are gone, coiled on the floor, so he shuffles his feet beneath him and finds some balance and tries to stand and just as he does, as he makes it to his feet and manages to stay there (swaying and tilting, but still upright), the second hunter falls, hard and screaming and bleeding, a gushing current running running running…

"Sam…"

Dean finds his brother's wrist, latches onto it and won't let go, won't ever let go again.

"Sam sto…."

Too late.

Dean doesn't know how Sam knew that the final hunter is the one who picked up the pliers and peeled away, the one who sliced into skin with the knife, but he must, he must know because this one falls harder than the others and he won't stop screaming. But there is no blood this time, just a crackling along the inside of his skin, bones shattering from within. He keeps screaming, and he is not the only one. Dean is pulling at his little brother's wrist, tries grabbing onto his arm and his shoulder and shaking him, shaking him, but Sam is already _shaking so hard, pulsing off of him in waves and waves_ and he doesn't feel it, just watches with a blank expression while the hunter on the ground writhes in front of him until Sam finally, finally lets him die and he goes quiet but someone is still screaming and it's Dean and it's his brother's name.

 _Sammy Sammy Sammy Sammy Sammy._

"Dean. Stop," Sam says, and he finally acknowledges his brother, shadows Dean's touch with a clap on the shoulder and keeps it there and squeezes and it is supposed to be reassuring and warm but it isn't, it isn't. Dean stops.

"Wha..what have you done?" Dean whispers, staring down at the three bodies on the ground and trying not to gag but not being able to look anywhere else, nowhere else, especially not at Sammy because Sammy wouldn't do this, he couldn't do this, he…

"I saved you," Sam says simply, head tilted a little bit with that too-long hair brushing over slightly raised eyebrows that seem to say: _What else could I do? No other choice, you understand Dean? This was the only way._

Dean shakes his head and he knows he has to look now so he tilts his head up and he looks, feels that _humming_ radiating through the hand still squeezing his shoulder in used-to-be reassurance, that _humming_ that is circling above their heads, pushing into the air around them and between them. He looks.

It has been months, and Sam is the same except for the few extra inches of long, brown hair. It has been months, and Sam's face is scrunched into one of the expressions Dean remembers so well, the one called "Come On Dean, Stay With Me" that usually makes an appearance when Dean is either losing blood or regaining consciousness and he doesn't think he's doing either because all the blood has clotted up by now and he's awake, he's awake and

"I was supposed to save _you_ though, Sammy. I was supposed to…" Dean stops, swallows hard, closes his eyes. Opens them again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough."

Sam smiles small and sad. Something new in the expression now, almost bitter. "To what? To save me? Or kill me?" he asks. Dean winces. Doesn't answer.

"I have to go now," Sam says. He is still grabbing onto Dean's shoulder, but now he moves his hand to Dean's cheek. Pats it once, twice, lets his arm swing back down to his side and Dean doesn't realize he has leaned into the touch until Sam lets him go.

"I can't let you do that. I can't let you leave again." Dean doesn't know if he meant it as an order or a plea, and it comes out sounding like a strangled combination of both, his tongue swelling over the words, throat closing up. He tells himself it is just from all the blood.

Sam shakes his head. He looks young, with that shagginess that comes with the extra length of hair, but the expression is still colder than it used to be, his next words acidic. "Brother, you can't stop me."

He is gone then, a wisp of smoke carried off in a fraction of a second, blink and you'll miss it. Dean blinked. He missed it. He lunges, hand swiping at the empty air where his brother used to be a moment too late, and it is enough to push his exhausted, deprived body off-balance, enough so that he stumbles a little before crashing to his knees, air rushing out of him in one long _huff_. He stays there a while, rocking back and forth on cold concrete.

Dean knows he needs to get up. The bodies of three dead hunters lay around him, and he is still bleeding sluggishly from the places where knife met skin- nothing immediately life-threatening, all cuts administered with the utmost care and meant to keep him alive for a while, but still, he needs to go he needs to go he needs to…

The words replay in his head, inescapable loop.

" _I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough."_

" _To what? To save me? Or kill me?"_

Dean lets his weight fall back against his heels, hands without fingernails curled against his lap, and he stares down at them, body numb and untrembling. One word falls from bloodied lips, fractured and quiet as it catches along the edges of his teeth.

"Both."

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 **I don't know what's up with me writing semi-evil Sam stories lately, but I've learned not to question it too much. Thanks so much for reading, and of course I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


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